Death & Stilettos

by Jason Krumbine

  There are two doors in the Waiting Room. One is the brown door that the Graves sisters had entered through. The other door is the Red Door. The afterlife is behind that door.

  The frosted glass of the receptionist’s window remains closed.

  Brooke and Avery sit on either side of Paulie, who’s propped up in his seat awkwardly. His hands are cuffed in front of him. There is nothing that is going to unlock those cuffs now. He’s totally zoned out. The cuffs have that effect on the dead. A herd of elephants could be trampling through here dressed in tutus and Paulie wouldn’t even bat an eyelash. Avery tries not to focus on the bits of him that were dangling out, the steady drip, drip didn’t help, though.

  Brooke sighs loudly and checks her watch.

  “I’m gonna miss my date.” She slouches down in her chair.

  “That watch is dead,” Avery says. “It’s been stuck at a quarter past three for the last month. You have no idea what time it really is.”

  “I know that it took us longer to collect Paulie here than it should have,” she says. “Last time it took this long we had to chase the guy.” She points at Paulie’s non-existent lower half. “Paulie has no legs.”

  “Shut up,” Avery replies.

  She shuts up and the next few minutes pass in silence.

  “What time is it?” Brooke finally asks.

  Her sister ignores her.

  Brooke looks at Avery from around Paulie. “Hello?”

  “I’m not talking to you,” she says.

  “Hey, I think I’m the only one around here who’s allowed to be upset,” Brooke says. “I could be enjoying tiger-like sex right now.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this, but what is ‘tiger-like sex’?” Avery asks.

  “It’s the kind of sex you have with a man who has an ass so hard you can crack walnuts on it,” Brooke answers. “Because, what other kind of sex are you going to have with him?”

  Avery holds up a hand. “Five minutes. Just sit there five minutes without saying something about your sex life. Do you think you can do that?”

  “No, I can’t. You know why?”

  “Because your watch is dead.”

  “Because my watch is apparently dead,” Brooke says. She taps her fingers against the armrest for a second. She holds up her wrist again, showing Avery the watch. “Do you know why I have Dad’s watch?”

  “Because he liked you best,” Avery says with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

  “Because he liked me best,” Brooke says anyway and without the sarcasm.

  “You need to stop bringing that up,” Avery says.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not true.”

  "You would say that." Brooke shakes her head.

  "I would say that because it's true," Avery says.

  “Really?” Brooke replies. “Because the fact that I have his watch and his jacket, two of his most prized possessions, would suggest otherwise. Also, I was his little princess.”

  “You know he used to call me that, too,” Avery points out. “He only stopped when you were born. Then you were the little princess.”

  "Yes, but with me, Daddy meant it," Brooke says, giving her sister a haughty look.

  Avery frowns. "You're terrible."

  "Thank you."

  "Not a compliment," Avery says. “And parents don’t have favorites. And calling his watch and his jacket Dad’s most prized possessions doesn’t put a very high value on you and I.”

  Brooke snorts. “That’s rich,” she settles back into her chair.

  Avery does a palms up. "How does that make any sense at all?" Avery leans forward and looks over at her. “Does it even bother you that you don’t have a professional bone in your body? Who shows up at a job eating?”

  “There’s only one bone I care about,” she says with a dirty smile. "And that's one that's dangling between my date's legs right now."

  “Oh, that’s nice. Very mature. Very ladylike,” Avery settles back. “Dad would be proud.”

  “He would be,” Brooke agrees. “And you know why?”

  “Because you were his favorite,” Avery beats her to the punch.

  “Because I was his favorite,” she says anyway.

  Avery shakes her head. “You know, there’s a technical term for what you have.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s called Daddy Issues.”

  They settle back in silence.

  Brooke speaks up again after a minute. “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously though, what time is it?”

  Avery closes her eyes and sighs. She pulls out her cellphone and presses the button on the side. The screen lights up. “It’s seven-thirty.”

  Brooke pouts. "I'm already half an hour late to my date."

  “And yet," Avery says, "he hasn't called you to find out why you're not answering your door."

  "He's not picking me up," Brooke corrects her sister. "I was supposed to meet him."

  "Oh, that's charming," Avery says. "And has called you to find out where you are?"

  Brooke doesn't respond, chewing on her lower lip for minute.

  "Brooke?" Avery prompts.

  She looks at her sister. "He doesn't really have my phone number."

  "He doesn't have your phone number?" Avery repeats.

  "No."

  Avery just shakes her head.

  "Hey, this wasn't supposed to be a long-term thing, Avery," Brooke explains. "The man was built and put on this Earth for one purpose and one purpose only: to please me sexually. He doesn't need my phone number for that. I don't care about what he does or what kind of thoughts he has."

  "You just care about his ass," Avery says.

  "And, you know, the bits in the front, too."

  Avery sits back in her chair. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Please." Brooke stretches out in her chair. “Hey, did I tell you about the other guy?”

  "No."

  "I didn't?"

  "I mean, 'No don't tell me anymore,'" Avery says. "I already feel filthy. Your words coat me in a layer of disgusting sluttiness. I'm pretty sure I smell like a slut now."

  "I am not a slut," Brooke insists.

  "Society might disagree with you on that one."

  "It's the Twenty-First Century," Brooke says.

  Avery frowns. "Is that supposed to be a valid argument or just an attempt at self delusion?"

  “Lipstick Feminism.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “It’s a thing.”

  “You saying it over and over again does not make it a thing.”

  Brooke ignores her. "Did I tell you about the guy from the club."

  "What club?"

  "The place last week."

  Avery looks at her. “Where we picked up the dead stripper?”

  Brooke nods. “Yes."

  Avery runs through the memory quickly. "The bartender?"

  "Steven.”

  Avery gaps at her sister. "Steven?"

  "Steven," Brooke repeats, speaking in a husky, throaty whisper.

  Avery frowns. “Don’t tell me you went back to see Steven.”

  "Not only did I go back to see Steven," Brooke says. "But Steven took me in the back to see me."

  Avery drops her face into her hands and moans. "My sister is such a slut."

  "Oh, come on, did you not see the man?" Brooke asks, her voice brimming with unbridled lust.

  “I saw him,” Avery says.

  Brooke closes her eyes, replaying the memory of Steven the bartender and savoring every moment of it. "The man was chiseled out from a piece of marble," she says. "Chiseled by God Himself."

  "Please don't say what you're about to say," Avery says.

  "I got wet just looking at him," Brooke finishes.

  "And that's what I was hoping you wouldn't say." Avery looks at her sister seriously. “You need to stop picking up men at strip clubs.”

  "What are you talking about? I don't pick up men at str
ip clubs."

  Avery starts ticking off her fingers. "Billy the bouncer from the Beaver."

  Brooke smiles. "Yummy."

  "Craig the manager from The Dancing Beaver."

  Brooke sighs. "He liked to talk a lot."

  "Burt from the Stallion."

  Brooke smiles. "He's the only one that counts."

  "And why is that?"

  Brooke's smile gets wider. "Because he was a stripper."

  “None of that helps your case.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t even get to my point,” Brooke says.

  “You had a point?”

  “Steven, he does this thing with his tongue,” she pauses, closing her eyes and squeezing her legs together. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Then don’t, please.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Brooke finishes, biting her lower lip. “I’m getting worked up from just thinking about him.”

  “Maybe you should have scheduled a date with him and not the numbers man,” Avery suggests.

  Brooke opens her eyes, stretching her arms out over her head. “That’s a good idea. Why didn’t I do that?”

  Avery shakes her head. “I have no idea.”

  “He had a magnificent tongue,” Brooke says after a minute. “Magnificent.”

  The Red Door clicks, cutting Brooke off from anything further.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord,” Avery prays, getting to her feet.

  They grab Paulie and drag him across the room. They’re both wearing the gloves this time.

  Avery nods at the door. “Open it.”

  “I opened it last time,” Brooke says. “You open it.”

  “You’re in front of the handle.”

  “We have a turn system for this.”

  “Then don’t stand in front of the handle when it isn’t your turn,” Avery says.

  Brooke makes a face. Touching the door, it sends shivers down to your soul. It was their father’s least favorite part of the job. They used to think he was full of crap. What could be so bad about touching a stupid door?

  First time Avery opened the door she had nightmares for a week.

  First time Brooke opened the door she went on a two-week bender. They didn’t hear from her until she was in the drunk tank downtown.

  The sisters have gotten better at it since then.

  Brooke steels herself. She takes a deep breath and then quickly grabs the door handle.

  She yanks the door open and they both look away.

  There’s an absence of nothing that pours out of the open doorway. It disturbs the Waiting Room, folding everything into an unreality of sorts.

  The sisters push Paulie through the doorway as quickly as possible, careful to never look through the open door.

  Brooke kicks the Red Door closed and the Waiting Room returns to normal.

  She looks at Avery and starts to say something, but the frosted glass of the receptionist’s window opens.

  It’s time to get paid.

  “Girls,” Marge greets them with the familiarity of a woman who knew them before they were born. She looks up at Avery from behind her red librarian reading glasses and gives her a grandmotherly smile. “This one cause you any problems?”

  “Only in that he had a mouth,” she says, handing her the paperwork.

  “Avery wanted to do her Good Samaritan routine,” Brooke piped up from behind. “It made me miss my date.”

  “Will you stop it already,” Avery says and smiles at Marge. “He wasn’t the only one with a mouth that was giving me a hard time.”

  Marge nods. “Nothing wrong with wanting to go above and beyond, Brooke, dear,” she says, looking over the paperwork.

  “There is when it cuts into my time,” she grumbles, sounding extra grumpy, of course. She had been looking forward to seeing that ass out in the open.

  Marge gives the paperwork a once-over out of habit more than anything. Avery dots her I’s and cross all her T’s. Marge never has any problems with the paperwork when she does it.

  Marge pulls out the check from her desk drawer. It’s already made out to Avery and Brooke Graves. It always is.

  And what happens if it’s one of those rare times they don’t catch the soul? Or they lose the handcuffs? Has the check already been made out? It’s one of those odd little things they try not to think about.

  Avery looks at the check. It ain’t much, but it’ll keep lights on and the landlords off their backs. They won’t be going on any shopping sprees down Fifth Avenue, but that’s okay. How many shoes can a girl have anyway? Avery smiles to herself. Stupid question.

  “Thanks, Marge,” she says as she pockets the money.

  “Tell your mother hi for me,” Marge says.

  Avery gives a nod “Sure thing, Marge.”

  The frosted glass slides back into place and they’re done.

  Outside at the car, specifically, a pink four-sedan that Avery picked up at a police auction, Brooke checks her broken watch again. She taps on the faceplate and holds it up to her ear, like it’s some secret ritual that will bring the busted timepiece back to life.

  “It’s always the same,” Avery says and holds up her cellphone so she can see the correct time. “Ten minutes in the waiting room, an hour and a half out here in the real world.”

  Brooke frowns. “I missed my date.”

  “I’m gonna get you a t-shirt with that written on it,” Avery replies, walking around to the driver’s side. “It’ll save you the effort of having to say it every five minutes.”

  “I missed my date and I’m really horny now,” Brooke says.

  “Didn’t need to know that.”

  “This is your fault.” Brooke points at her sister.

  Avery gets in the car. Brooke stays out, fuming. Avery taps her fingers on the steering wheel, trying to wait as patiently as possible while her sister has her mini tantrum. A minute passes before she gets inside. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Get Tivo,” Avery suggests. “Diversify the interests in your life,” She opens her mouth and Avery cuts her off before she can make a crack about Steven the Bartender. “And that doesn’t count.”

  She frowns. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”

  “That’s just how good I am,” Avery says and she starts the car.

  three

  Clark’s is a quiet little place that’s frequented by the artistic types. Dim, moody lighting, leather upholstered seats, light muzak play over hidden speakers and white tablecloths. It’s located on the edge of the business district so there are plenty of suits mixing with the artists.

  The Graves sisters sit at the bar. Avery’s nursing a glass of white wine like it’s the last one on the planet. Brooke finishes off a fruity drink with more alcohol than fruit.

  “Barkeep,” she says. There’s no slur in her words, yet. The night’s still young. “Fill me up.”

  “We still have to work tomorrow,” Avery reminds her sister absently.

  “Only if somebody croaks,” Brooke says, scratching her nose.

  Avery points to the TV behind the bar she’s been watching. It’s muted, but she can still make out the details.

  “Double homicide,” she says. “The Kirkland Motel.”

  “Looks like a dive,” her sister comments.

  The bartender wanders over to Brooke’s end of the bar. He’s not that good looking, but he’s certainly not the ugliest man Brooke’s eyed this evening. “Stop calling me barkeep.”

  Brooke squints at him. “What should I call you?”

  The bartender sighs. “Every time.”

  “Every Time?” Brooke repeats, trying it out on tongue. “That’s an odd name.”

  “You’re an idiot,” the bartender looks at Avery. “Your sister’s an idiot.”

  “No argument here,” Avery says.

  Brooke narrows her gaze at him. “You know, I was considering taking you home with me.”

  He silently holds up his left hand. There’s a sparkly gold ring on his
left ring finger.

  Brooke pouts. “Well, in that case, I’ll take another drink.”

  “Another one of those?” he points to the empty glass in front her.

  “For now.”

  He goes to make her a fresh drink.

  “How come nobody’s ever killed in a nice place?” Brooke asks.

  “That’s a stupid thing to say,” Avery says, sipping her wine. “People get killed at nice places all the time.”

  “Fine. How come we never get to collect souls at nice places?”

  “There was that homicide at the Hilton,” Avery points out.

  Brooke frowns. “The Hilton isn’t nice.”

  “I think the owners would disagree,” Avery doesn’t take her eyes off the TV. “And what about tonight?”

  Brooke makes a farting noise with her lips. “Suburban communities are hardly nice. Hey, Every Time,” she calls to the bartender. “Change the channel.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Avery says.

  “Hey.”

  “I’m watching this.”

  “There’s no sound,” Brooke says.

  “I didn’t say I was hearing it,” Avery replies.

  The blond reporter finishes her report from the crappy hotel and they switch back to the anchors.

  Avery gets up and puts some money on the counter. “Want me to give you a ride home?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brooke replies. “I missed my date and I aim to find a replacement for the night.” She points to the two men at the other end of the bar. “That looks good.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both,” Brooke replies. “Although, if I’m being honest, the one on the left has bigger hands. So, you know, there’s that.”

  “But you’re not a slut,” Avery says.

  “Lipstick Feminism.”

  The bartender brings Brooke her new fruity drink. “Lipstick what?”

  Avery shakes her head. “Don’t ask.”

  “Lipstick Feminism,” Brooke says to him.

  “Huh,” the bartender says and glances over her shoulder.

  “What?” Brooke asks.

  “I could have sworn I heard somebody call me over at that end of the bar.”

  Brooke frowns. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “There it is again.” He moves away from the sisters.

  Brooke looks at her sister. “It’s not me, is it?”